


With One Glance

by The_Wavesinger



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: F/F, Getting Together, Spies & Secret Agents, Undercover as Married
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-05
Updated: 2019-08-05
Packaged: 2020-07-24 19:16:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20019655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Wavesinger/pseuds/The_Wavesinger
Summary: Natasha's first mission after she's recruited to SHIELD is a simple intel-gathering task. That's easy. The trickier part is pretending to be married to Maria Hill.





	With One Glance

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sophinisba](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sophinisba/gifts).



“Natalie and Marina Harris. Married for eight months.” Nick Fury (director of SHIELD, Natasha thinks, director of _SHIELD_ ) throws two fat files (and two USBs, but the physical files are doubtless more important—SHIELD is odd that way) down onto the table. “You take orders from Hill when necessary, Romanov. But this is your mission, and you get to make the choices.”

Hill (damn good agent, from what Natasha can access of her record, which isn’t much, because, well, she can’t access much of anything right now) nods. She’s obviously been briefed before now, Natasha thinks idly, from the way she twists her mouth wryly.

Fury jerks his head at the door. “Hill, you’re dismissed. Romanov, stay behind for a second, will you?”

Hill turns around sharply (former military, from the way she turns her heel, Natasha thinks) and nods to Natasha before leaving.

Fury’s eye settles on Natasha.

He’s staring at her with a look in his face that Natasha can’t interpret. “A lot of people would say I’m trusting you too easily.”

“I know.” Natasha does know. No-one’s brave enough to say anything to her face—the Black Widow has a reputation—but Natasha has seen the side-eyes and the muttering and the way people huddle together when she passes them in the corridors. She can’t really blame them; she’d be suspicious of herself too.

“ _Am_ I trusting you too easily?”

Natasha forces herself to hold Fury’s gaze steadily. “No, sir. I promise you’re not.”

He quirks his mouth in what might almost be a smile. “Don’t fuck this up, Romanov.”

“I won’t,” Natasha promises. She means it.

—

Natalie Harris (nee Tulles) is a geneticist working at Stark Industries. She was in the military for a few years after college; that’s where she met Marina Harris, who was her CO at the time. They stumbled into each other (quite literally) years after both of them got out, and once they shed their uniforms it turned out they got along amazingly well with each other. They were married within two years.

Natasha thumbs through the pages of Natalie’s (her) make-believe life. Documents, bills, loans, letters, photographs, a diary. All the things a person is made of. More important to know about even than the rest of the bio on the USB for sure. Not more important to know about than the identity of their mark, but that, apparently, is information she hasn’t yet been given access to.

She’s just reading a paper she supposedly wrote (SHIELD has multiple undercover identities ready to go at the drop of a hat; it’s quite impressive, really), when there’s a knock on her door.

“Come in.” But Natasha tenses for a fight. No-one drops by. No-one comes to see her in her tiny cramped room that SHIELD is providing for her, because she doesn’t really know anyone here.

The door swings open, and it’s—

Natasha blinks and forces herself to relax. It’s Hill. “Ma’am.”

“We’re married,” Hill says, “you shouldn’t call me that. Unless you’re into that kind of thing, of course.” There’s a sharp glint in Hill’s eyes as she speaks.

Natasha had been trained in how to paper over discomfort since she was six years old, and she puts that skill to good use now. She smiles, open and welcoming. “Of course, _Marina_.”

“Can I sit down?”

“Of course.” Her skin prickles when she says that. She doesn’t like people in her space. But it’s advisable not to anger Hill right now. “But that chair’s not very comfortable.” It’s why Natasha is spread out on the bed instead of at the desk. Opening up with tidbits of the truth and all that.

“That’s fine.” Hill sits down, all elegant and smooth movements, and smiles. “Reading up on Mrs. Harris?”

“Yeah. But it’s Alexander Petroff I’m really interested in. You have that file.”

“I was actually coming here to give it to you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” Natasha takes the files and returns to the bed, flipping through it carefully.

(She’s aware of Hill, watches her from the corner of her eye. But she stays almost perfectly still except for the movement of pages as she reads. In spite of herself, slowly, Natasha feels the tension leech out of her body.

Hill is just there. Still and calm. Natasha could almost call it _nice_.)

—

Natasha likes cooking. It’s soothing and calm and the kind of thing that the Red Room considered a frivolous waste (because their time was valuable, and needed to be taken up by training, but she’s not going to think about that right now). Also, the cafeteria in the SHIELD building has food that’s absolutely _terrible_.

Barton asks her there, though. And she owes Barton.

So.

“You’re not eating that?”

Natasha is stirring her potatoes (mashed, with milk in them; Americans are sometimes absolutely disgusting) halfheartedly, but at Barton’s question she pushes her half-eaten food across the table to him. “I don’t know how you bear to eat this gunk.”

He smiles at her in the strange way he does whenever she says something even remotely amusing. “These are honestly quite good.”

Natasha wrinkles her nose and pointedly doesn’t comment.

Barton shakes his head. “But mashed potatoes aside, how is…everything?”

The friendly concern in his voice is real, Natasha thinks, and she doesn’t know what to do with it. Hides her confusion by shrugging. “I have a mission, actually.”

“Oh?” Barton leans forward in his seat. “Really?”

“Undercover work,” Natasha says, “but it’s not solo.” Maybe even that much information is too much, but Fury hadn’t told her _not_ to tell anyone, so. “It’s going to be me and Maria Hill.”

“Oh.” Barton knows, of course, what that means. The trust they don’t have in her (why would they? Natasha wouldn’t, in their place) and the chance she’s been given (why _would_ they? Natasha still wouldn’t, in their place). “You’ll like Hill, I think.”

Natasha hums, non-committal. She’s not sure whether she’s ready to like anyone at SHIELD yet, aside from maybe Barton. “We’ll see.” 

—

Natasha is attacking the punching bag. One, two, three, and then a kick, and she’d really like to practice with an actual person, a moving target, but that’s not happening, so she balances on her toes. Her focus has narrowed to the bag and the rhythm of her fists banging against it. Situational awareness be screwed, she thinks, no-one here would come talk to her anyway.

“Hey, do you want to spar?”

Natasha starts. She doesn’t jump, consciously, but she turns around, and—

It’s Hill. She’s holding two of the gym'sparring batons, and she doesn’t look at all out of place here despite the fact that Natasha knows most of the gym is eyeing them right now. “Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you.”

Natasha shrugs carefully. “No, I don’t mind. Actually,” she should, it’s good form, it might end up being necessary somewhere down the line, but also, she wants to, “it’s probably a good idea to practice together for a bit, isn’t it?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Hill holds out one of the batons to her. Natasha takes it, tests its weight.

One of the mats is empty (a combination of the rumors about Natasha and Hill’s rank, Natasha suspects, because the gym had been fully occupied when she came in), and they move to it, settle into position.

Hill attacks first, and Natasha realizes quickly that she’s _good_. Her footwork, for one—she dodges Natasha’s blows more often than not, defying all attempts to get a solid grip on her. She won’t stay still. And she’s strong, her slim frame packing more strength than Natasha imagined, and she meets Natasha blow for blow. Shen catches Natasha’s hand behind her back, once, and Natasha thinks for a moment that she’s going to lose before she manages to struggle away. She is, in short, damn good. It’s freeing, to fight with her full abilities against someone who can take it, against someone who can match her.

Natasha’s been training since she was six, though. It takes her what feels like a lifetime, but she manages to pin Hill to the mat, pressing her wrists down with one hand and holding her forcibly prone with her entire body.

Hill is flushed, her hair mussed and her eyes wide, as she pants, “I yield.” Her wrists tremble under Natasha’s grip. In fact, now that Natasha’s looking, her entire body is trembling, her chest heaving and her breath coming in great gasps, and Natasha can’t tear her eyes away from the sweat beading in the hollow of her breasts that peaks above her tank top. She presses down instinctively—

Comes back to herself with a gasp and rolls away. Drops onto the ground. Act normal, she thinks. This is not the kind of complication she needs or wants right now.

“That was a good fight,” she says, staring at the ceiling. She thinks her voice might even sound composed.

“It was.” Hill has stood up, now, and she’s hovering over Natasha. “We should do this again.”

“We should.” Natasha takes the hand Hill is offering her. Then, quieter, “Thank you, Hill.”

“Maria,” Hill—Maria—says.

“Maria,” Natasha acknowledges.

She decides she likes the way Hill’s eyes sparkle when they light up with happiness.

—

They move in on a sunny June afternoon.

SHIELD’s prepped the house for them, but they want to arouse as little suspicion as possible, so they drive a rented moving van stuffed with furniture and clothes and all the other junk that people accumulate.

Or rather, Maria drives and Natasha navigates. Because it turns out Maria is terrible at navigation, even when that navigation involves an electronic GPS that does all the work for her.

Natasha is still teasing her about it, a facsimile of normality that she doesn’t think too hard about (“how did you survive the Army without ending up floating in the middle of the Pacific Ocean by mistake?”), as they carry a couch down the driveway when a middle-aged man steps out of the house next door.

Greying black hair, thin glasses, wide mouth, sharp nose. That’s their target, looking almost exactly like he did in the SHIELD-provided photograph, and from the way Maria tenses for a second then relaxes (minute movements, not visible if you weren’t looking) she’s seen him too.

He walks right up to their fence, calls, “Hey. Just moving in?”

“Yeah. Would you mind if we just—”

They put the sofa inside as fast as possible and come back out, moving in tandem, effortless.

The target smiles, extends his hand. “I’m Alexander Petroff.”

“Hi.” His handshake is firm and brief. “I’m Natalie Harris.”

“Marina,” Maria offers. “Marina Harris.”

Petroff’s eyes dart between them. “You’re married?”

Maria rests her hand on the small of Natasha’s back. “Yes. Yes, we are.”

(A thrill runs down Natasha’s spine, warm heat spreading out from Maria’s palm and across her back. She resolutely doesn’t think about it.)

—

The house is a typical suburban house, the kind of house Natasha had seen (been shown) in pictures when she was younger, the kind of house that screamed “American”.

The house also has only two bedrooms, and their handler, a slim bespectacled man called James Pereira, forbade either of them from sleeping in the guest bedroom. “If you forget to close the curtain that’ll be it,” he said. “So don’t.”

Natasha is a little annoyed at not being trusted to close a curtain. Mostly on principle—she doesn’t really mind sharing a bed, but she’s not child. Curtains aren’t an issue.

She doesn’t voice this thought aloud. Instead, she flops on the bed to wait for Maria to finish up with the bathroom and thinks about ways to plant a bug on Petroff. On his mobile phone, maybe, if he has one, and she thinks she’s already got a plan for that, but she also wants to figure out how to get into the house.

Maria clears her throat. “Bathroom’s free if you want it.”

“Thanks.” Natasha gets up. “I was thinking we should have a barbeque. Invite the neighbors.”

Maria blinks. “And then—his phone, you mean?”

It’s gratifying that Maria catches what she’s saying so quickly, but Natasha doesn’t let on. “And an invitation to his house, maybe.”

“That _would_ be useful.” Maria tilts her head. Then, “I’ll call them tomorrow, if that’s okay with you.” She offers Natasha an approving smile.

It is, Natasha tells herself, entirely coincidental that warmth bubbles in the pit of her stomach as Maria smiles.

—

Falling asleep isn’t a problem. Maria’s taken the left side of the bed, so Natasha slips into the right and draws the covers over herself. It’s been a long, hard day and she succumbs to the waiting darkness almost as soon as she closes her eyes.

At 3 a.m. she wakes up and can’t fall back asleep.

This is normal. Waiting a half-hour to see if by some strange miracle she slips back into a doze is normal. Slipping out of bed when it becomes apparent she won’t is also normal.

What isn’t normal is that this house doesn’t have a gym. They have a treadmill, but it’s in a box somewhere, and anyway what Natasha needs right now is to move her body properly, to come back into herself from the far-way place she can feel her mind drifting to.

She could head outside for a run, of course. But that’s probably not a good idea if she doesn’t want to arouse Petroff’s suspicious, she thinks detachedly.

So, then. Whatever is in the house is what she’ll have to make do with.

None of the books they’ve put on the shelf arouse her interest right now, even though she had a hand in picking them. She tries to sketch something, clumsily, not out of any grand artistic vision but out of a need to keep her hands busy, but she ends up drawing a mass of squiggly lines that aren’t any discernible shape. An attempt to braid her hair in a fashion she’s never tried before falls flat. She hasn’t even pulled the pans out of the cupboards they’ve been shoved in before she realizes she doesn’t really want to cook, either. Even the mission briefing is of no interest to her. She can’t bring herself to care about Petroff’s supposedly treasonous activities or the fact that he might be funding an attempt to recreate the super-soldier serum.

Eventually, she ends up staring out the window at the lawn washed in pale blue moonlight.

“Can’t sleep?”

Natasha’s mind is fuzzy enough that she’s caught off-guard. She spins around before she can catch herself, falling immediately into a defensive position.

It’s just Maria, though, arms crossed across the material of her flimsy t-shirt. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you. I woke up and I couldn’t find you.”

“I’m fine.” She’s fine. It’s just stupid sleeplessness, this drifting that she doesn’t like but can’t stop. “Go back to bed. I’ll be fine.”

Maria doesn’t say anything. She comes to Natasha’s side and presses her shoulder against Natasha’s. It should make Natasha’s skin prickle and tense the way any kind of contact does, these days, but it doesn’t. Strange.

“I’m fine,” Natasha says again, quieter. “Go back to bed, it’s fine.”

“Come up with me.”

Maria’s eyes are round and luminous in the moonlight. Natasha is too far away to argue with her. She lets her take her hand and lead her up the stairs and to their rumpled, still-warm bed.

Natasha’s usual cycle doesn’t relent—she doesn’t fall back asleep until it’s almost six. But, she admits to herself, the warmth of Maria’s body next to her is oddly comforting.

—

The barbeque turns into a rather massive affair. The neighborhood is very friendly, it turns out, and everyone knows each other. The end result is a guest list of over thirty people, and Pereira frowning at them over the edge of his glasses on the secure videochat.

It’s a beautiful day, though, blue cloudless sky and the temperature not too hot (“seventy-five is just about perfect,” Maria says, and Natasha snorts internally at the stupid American measurement). They’ve set up a grill and a mountain of food, and the guests seem to be enjoying themselves. They’re loud and laughing, at least, and they thank Natasha and Maria multiple times and praise their food.

And the most rousing sign of success: Petroff is here, and he’s warming up to them. _And_ he has a cellphone.

“We just need him to go to the restroom for a moment,” Maria murmurs to Natasha. They’ve both ducked inside the house on the pretext of bringing out more beer; this isn’t the kind of discussion to be having around listening ears. “And then I can distract him. Keep him away while you do—whatever with the bugs.” (Maria had admitted to Natasha that she was “terrible with technology”. Natasha finds it oddly adorable, but she’s seen the way Maria fights and doesn’t say that to her face.)

It’s surprisingly easy to get Petroff to part with his phone. They ply him with beers, and maneuver the crowd so his wife (Katy Petroff, or so she’d introduced herself) is on the opposite side of the room. He leaves his phone on the long table they’ve set up on the lawn, and Natasha has only to grab it, dart inside, and gently poke through the innards of the machine to place the tiny bug (Pereira gave them a bag full of the things, and Natasha doesn’t know where they’re supposed to use them all) where it will be unnoticeable.

Maria does _something_ , because Petroff doesn’t come back for a good ten minutes after Natasha surreptitiously replaces the phone in its original position. When he does return, he’s arm in arm with Maria and laughing uproariously, their cheeks flushed.

Natasha swallows the sudden ugly surge of sharp anger and turns away. They’re here to do a job, and by whatever means necessary. It’s stupid to get worked up about it.

Especially when Maria comes up to her and kisses her cheek lightly. “Hey. I missed you.” (It’s for show, she knows it’s for show, but she still feels her heart leap.)

“I missed you too,” Natasha murmurs, and doesn’t miss the eyes that follow their lips. The neighbors, she thinks, are convinced.

It feels like a victory in an entirely different way than it’s supposed to.

—

The bug on Petroff’s phone sends live audio to SHIELD, so Natasha and Maria have no way of knowing whether they were actually successful.

What they do know, however, is that Maria and Petroff grew friendly enough in Petroff’s mind that he invited her and “her quiet pretty wife” (Natasha snorts with amusement when Maria relays this description to her) to their house for dinner that weekend, along with three more couples.

“That’s good,” Natasha says. “That’s amazing.” Looking at Maria, seated across the table from her, “ _You’re_ amazing.”

It’s the first direct compliment she’s ever given Maria, and she’s startled to see a bright red flush bloom across Maria’s cheeks. “It wasn’t—I didn’t do anything, not really. We just talked.”

“And you charmed him,” Natasha says.

Maria shrugs. “I guess so.”

She’s dismissive and light as she speaks. It shouldn’t matter to Natasha that Maria takes this compliment, but somehow, it does. “You did.” She wraps her hand around Maria’s wrist (slowly, deliberately—she thinks Maria has noticed, now, how much that kind of gesture, that kind of touch doesn’t come naturally, and hopes that because of that this means _something_ to her) and squeezes.

Maria’s mouth tilts in something like a smile. “I—” She stops. Swallows.

Natasha tightens her grip on her wrist and doesn’t let go.

(That night, when Natasha wakes up and goes into the kitchen and Maria follows her down, Maria kisses forehead. “You did well too. I don’t think I told you that, but you did.”

A pleasant warmth spreads across Natasha’s body. When she falls asleep at six, it’s to a dream she can’t remember but is quite certain was pleasant.)

—

The Petroffs’ house was almost exactly like theirs in layout, it turned out.

Natasha’s eyes met Maria’s over her wine glass, and she knew they were having the same thought: _well, that makes it easy._

Maria excuses herself to use the restroom a few minutes later, kissing Natasha’s cheek as she leaves.

“You two are adorable,” Katy Petroff coos. “Aren’t they, Alex?”

“Hmmm?” Her husband (their mark, Natasha reminds herself) glances in her direction. “You’ve been married how long?”

“Eight months,” Natasha says, rehearsed. “And together for two years before.”

“Young love,” one of the other gathered couples (all of them older than her and Maria, Natasha is painfully aware) says, and the entire group laughs. Natasha can’t help her blush; she would hide it in her wine glass, but she needs to be sober, because in a moment—

Her phone rings.

She sighs as loud as she can before checking the display, and groans. Doesn’t make a show of it, but just enough; it’s almost second nature to her, slopping into that mask. “Sorry, I’m supposed to be on leave, but we have some crucial experiments running and—” She cuts herself off, answers her phone.

It’s Pereira, of course, alerted by Maria’s signal to call her, and he chatters in her ear inconsequentially until Natasha threads her way across the house to near the restroom.

Maria is just opening the door when Natasha ends her call and pockets her phone. “Fancy seeing you here, darling.”

“Yes, fancy that,” Natasha laughs. She ignores the pet name for the sake of keeping herself composed. “Shall we head back together?”

“Sure.”

Their route leads them past the study, as planned—they’d both agreed that it was the best place to plant their third bug (the first was in the living room by a sleight of Natasha’s hand, the second in the bathroom, deposited there by Natasha).

The door is open, and they duck in, quickly. Natasha is just finishing up with the careful placement of the bug behind a bookshelf—hidden from sight but still in a good position to catch the going-ons of the room—when there are voices down the hallway.

She swears colorfully inside her head. They’d planned for this, of course, but the plan had been to pretend to have fallen and that’s sounding like an incredibly stupid excuse at the moment, something that’ll blow their op to hell if Petroff is who they think he is.

She catches Maria’s eye, and in a split second she knows what to do. It’s stupid and reckless and foolhardy, but—

 _The mission,_ she reminds herself, and kisses Maria.

The kiss is—a good kiss. Maria kisses amazingly well, her lips chapped but still somehow soft and gentle. Her hand rises to cup Natasha’s face, sending a thousand tingling pinpricks across her skin at each point of contact. Natasha’s own hand is on Maria’s back, stroking slow circles and patterns, and she leans into Maria’s hand, and into the kiss.

She doesn’t know which one of them deepens the kiss, but the kiss _is_ deepened, tongues and teeth and sparks that spread everywhere, Natasha clutching fistfuls of Maria’s shirt and Maria’s body flush against hers, the two of them pressed against each other almost skin-to-skin—

A cleared throat breaks through their daze (or, Natasha thinks wildly, maybe madness is a better words), and the two of them jump apart.

It’s Katy Petroff. She’s smiling at them, indulgent and kind, and even as Natasha and Maria stammer out apologies, she waves them away. “I remember what me and Alex were like when we were first married. Trust me, I understand.”

Natasha follows Katy out of the study and somehow keeps up the conversation, but inside she’s reeling.

They crossed a line, the both of them, and Natasha doesn’t know how they can uncross it.

—

The rest of the dinner is excruciating. They go through the motions of being a couple, but a million thoughts are running through Natasha’s head, a million voices screaming, and nothing she thinks is very pleasant. From the tightness of Maria’s mouth and the over-tight way she clutches Natasha’s hand, she’s feeling the same thing.

Well, at least Natasha isn’t alone in this.

At long last, they manage to say their goodbyes. The walk (though the one-minute stroll cannot perhaps be termed a walk exactly) back to the house happens in silence.

So, Natasha thinks. _So_.

It wasn’t—

This wasn’t supposed to happen. She doesn’t _do_ this, least of all with a mission partner. This is the kind of thing that’s incredibly stupid. The cautionary tales you learn about in training, the agents who blinded themselves by emotion and failed their missions and destroyed the trust placed in them.

“That can’t happen again,” Natasha says once they’re safely in their kitchen.

But Maria’s swift agreement doesn’t come. Instead, she raises one eyebrow, and asks, “Why not?”

“The mission parameters—”

“The mission parameters say nothing about _this_.” Maria waves her hand expansively between them. “This is something outside the mission. This is _us_ , not SHIELD.”

Natasha wants to believe her. Natasha wants, so very badly, to believe her. She’d like to kiss Maria again, touch her skin and feel her callouses, hold her down and explore every inch of her body until she screams in ple—

No. That’s not allowed. She trusts Maria (it’s strange, that she trusts her so quick, almost on instinct, but she does), and any kind of entanglement would endanger that. She wants (needs) Maria more than she needs that kind of complication.

“Just so you know,” Maria interrupts Natasha’s thoughts, and her voice is achingly gentle, “It doesn’t matter what you decide, to me. If this doesn’t work out, I’ll still be here. If you decide you don’t want to go there, I’ll still be here. If we go forward and it works out, I’ll still be here.”

“How are you not scared?” Natasha asks. Because she doesn’t understand how Maria can sit there and speak so boldly, so brazenly, without any kind of fear.

In answer, Maria presses her hand to Natasha’s arm. Natasha realizes with a start that it’s shaking. “I’m _terrified_. But it’s worth it, don’t you think?”

Sparks are shooting through Natasha’s body where Maria is touching her. Maria’s face in the dim light of the kitchen lamp is beautiful, her eyes glittering with some unnamable emotion.

Natasha takes a deep breath. “Yes,” she says quietly, “Yes, I think it is.”

She leans forward and kisses Maria.


End file.
